“Yes, sir.”
I don’t tell him my mom is in the Caribbean with my dad and she can’t get here to support me no matter how fast she’d want to.
The pain comes and goes in waves, but the concern about what’s happening to our people feels even worse.
I feel like I just swallowed glass, the dread of all that could happen plaguing me as I try to calm down and keep my baby inside me a little longer.
34
TRAGEDY
Matt
One floor below the Oval Office is the Situation Room.
Manned 24/7, this is the place where you figure out and tackle the important things. The White House brain.
Where I’ve talked through the videoconference system to other heads of state. And ordered covert operations, among other highly classified endeavors.
I walk in with Dale Coin and Arturo Villegas, my chief security advisor.
Before the inauguration, the CIA director briefed me on all the covert operations the U.S. was engaged in against foreign enemies. Those had all been personally authorized by my predecessor, Jacobs, and would cease if I gave the word. If I remained silent, the operations would continue.
It’s one thing to be a candidate; another, the president.
Some of those operations were highly dangerous, with little benefit to the United States. But we have allies, too, which was something to consider.
Still, when you command the most powerful army in the world, you cannot treat it as a game. Every move of our operatives needs to be planned, strategized, then recorded and analyzed. And no matter what information we have, there are always too many variations of an outcome. No matter how well briefed an incoming president, nothing prepares you to send your men and women to war.
Priorities shift. Gaining more access to intelligence causes your views to shift dramatically as well.
I only hope I made the right calls.
I know as sure as fuck I’m making the right one now.
The generals are already seated. I take my seat, lean back, and let the wall before me light up with visuals. The Middle East has been a hot button since long before I took office. Dictators, armed rebels, fucking ISIS.
“In position,” General Quincy says.
They all look at me. The silence is deafening.
One second, two seconds.
“Open fire.”
35
I’M HERE
Charlotte
I feel another contraction hit and pain ricochets through my body, burning through even my deepest muscles.
I groan and clutch the edge of the table nearest to me.
I feel the baby move inside me and I stop in place, pressing my legs together against his movements.
Holy shit, this baby means business.
We just walked into the National Naval Medical Center. I asked my team to bring me, and we left a message for Matt. Now I’m rushed in by my security guards, and people gasp when they see me enter the hospital alone.
Without Matt.
Without the president.
“Mrs. Hamilton! Goodness me,” exclaims a nurse as she sees me waddling in, clutching my huge stomach, discomfort and fear written all over my face.
Fear that is multiplied, seeing as I need to deliver this baby while my husband tries to solve a national security crisis.
I shudder and try to push those thoughts away as another contraction comes. I moan and feel a puddle of water at my feet.
“Let’s get the first lady a wheelchair! NOW!”
“Page Dr. Conwell!”
I feel my body being guided into a wheelchair and before I know it, I am in a hospital bed.
I feel needles pricking my skin, see monitors arranged all around me and doctors rushing in. It seems everyone wants to help deliver the president’s baby.
My legs are propped up and a cloth is draped over them, for modesty. But honestly, at this moment, I couldn’t give a damn about modesty; I want this baby out and in my arms.
I hear some murmurs and the deep, soothing voice of a doctor addresses me: “Mrs. Hamilton, it seems the baby has shifted in your belly and we are going to have to perform a C-section.”
“Is the baby okay?!”
“Yes, ma’am. Don’t worry, we have everything under control. I will do everything I can to deliver this baby as quickly and safely as possible.”
I feel my heart sink in my chest, weighted down by uncontrollable fear.
I gulp back the scream welling in my chest and squeeze my eyes shut.
Get your shit together, Mommy, I tell myself. You got this.
“Okay, Charlotte, here we go. You shouldn’t feel a thing, maybe some slight pressure . . .” I hear the doctor’s words in the distance, but I am somewhere else.
If Matt can’t be here with me, I am going to him.
With my eyes still shut, I think of Matt . . . his hands wrapped around my waist as he hugs me from behind and meets my eyes in the mirror while I get dressed.
His deep voice gently singing into my belly early in the morning.
His mouth planting soft kisses on my forehead as he says good night.